The Perfect Husband (The Carmine Family Chronicles #1)

CHAPTER ONE

Henrik

Cracks in the Foundation

The coffee maker sputtered its last drops into my mug, the sound grating against the silence that had become our morning routine.

I didn't look up when Bryony entered the kitchen.

I didn't need to. I could feel her presence like a weight, pressing against the careful distance I'd constructed between us.

"Good morning," she said softly.

I grunted in response, scrolling through emails on my phone. Work. Always work. It was easier than looking at her, than seeing the hope that still flickered in those green eyes despite everything I'd done to extinguish it.

"I was thinking we could have dinner together tonight," Bryony continued, her voice carrying that tentative quality that made something twist uncomfortably in my chest. "Maybe that Italian place you used to like? We haven't been out in—"

"Can't. Late meeting." The lie came easily now, smooth as silk. I'd had plenty of practice.

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

I could feel her disappointment like a physical thing, but I kept my eyes on my phone, kept my expression neutral.

This was better. Easier. If I didn't engage, if I didn't let her in, then I didn't have to deal with the guilt that occasionally surfaced when I allowed myself to think too hard about what I was doing.

"Henrik." Her voice was firmer now, and despite myself, I looked up.

She stood by the counter, her dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders, wearing one of those sundresses that used to drive me crazy.

She was beautiful—objectively, undeniably beautiful.

At twenty, she still had that fresh, almost innocent quality that had first attracted me.

But now, looking at her, all I felt was...

nothing. Or maybe not nothing. Maybe resentment.

Resentment that she expected more from me than I was willing to give.

Resentment that she'd trapped me in this marriage with her neediness, her constant desire for connection.

"What?" I asked, my tone sharper than necessary.

She flinched slightly, and I felt a flicker of something—regret, maybe—but I pushed it down. "Never mind," she said quietly. "I'll see you tonight. Whenever you get home."

I nodded, already turning back to my phone. "Yeah. Don't wait up."

I heard her sharp intake of breath, but I didn't look up again. A moment later, her footsteps retreated down the hallway, and I was alone in the kitchen with my coffee and my phone and the comfortable numbness I'd cultivated over the past year.

It hadn't always been like this.

Two years ago, when I'd met Bryony at that charity gala in Crescent Falls, she'd been different.

Or maybe I'd been different. She'd been this mysterious, beautiful girl with sad eyes and a desperate need to escape something.

I'd never asked too many questions about her past—she'd been vague about her family, about where she came from—and I hadn't cared.

She'd been young, gorgeous, and clearly infatuated with me. It had been intoxicating.

We'd married quickly. Too quickly, probably. But she'd wanted it, and I'd been caught up in the whirlwind of new relationship energy, the thrill of having someone look at me like I hung the moon.

That had worn off faster than I'd expected.

Within six months, the reality of marriage had set in. Bryony wanted things from me—time, attention, emotional intimacy. Things I wasn't equipped to give, or maybe just didn't want to give. She'd become clingy, always asking where I was, what I was doing, when I'd be home. It had felt suffocating.

So I'd started pulling away. Working later. Going out with friends more. Creating space.

And then I'd met Amelia.

My phone buzzed with a text, and I felt a familiar spike of anticipation.

Amelia: Missing you. When can I see you?

I glanced toward the hallway where Bryony had disappeared, then typed back quickly.

Me: Tonight. Same place. 8pm.

Amelia: Can't wait. I'll wear that thing you like.

I felt a smile tug at my lips—the first genuine expression I'd had all morning.

Amelia was easy. She didn't ask for more than I could give.

She didn't look at me with those wounded eyes when I was distant.

She just wanted to have fun, to enjoy what we had without all the complicated emotional baggage.

She was everything Bryony wasn't.

I finished my coffee and grabbed my keys, heading for the door. As I passed the hallway, I could hear water running in the bathroom. Bryony, probably getting ready for whatever she did all day. I didn't actually know anymore. We'd stopped talking about our days, our lives, anything that mattered.

The house felt like a museum of our failed marriage—beautiful on the surface, hollow underneath.

I should have felt worse about it. About the affair, about the way I treated her, about the slow death of whatever we'd once had. But mostly, I just felt tired. Tired of pretending, tired of the guilt that occasionally surfaced, tired of being the villain in a story I hadn't meant to write.

As I climbed into my car, my phone buzzed again. Another text from Amelia, this one a photo that made heat pool in my gut. I saved it quickly, then deleted the message thread like I always did. Careful. I was always careful.

Bryony had mentioned something a few weeks ago about feeling like someone was watching her, about strange things happening around the house. I'd dismissed it as paranoia, as her way of trying to get my attention. She'd always been a bit dramatic, prone to anxiety and overthinking.

I'd told her she was being ridiculous.

Now, pulling out of the driveway, I pushed the memory away. I had a meeting at nine, lunch with a client at noon, and Amelia at eight. My day was planned, my life compartmentalized into neat little boxes that didn't overlap.

It was easier that way.

I didn't know then that everything was about to shatter. That the careful distance I'd built, the lies I'd told, the warnings I'd ignored—all of it was about to come crashing down in the worst possible way.

I didn't know that by the end of the day, Bryony would be fighting for her life.

And I didn't know that her brother—the brother she'd never told me about, the one with connections I couldn't have imagined—would be coming for answers.

All I knew was that I had a meeting to get to and a mistress to see later.

The perfect husband, living his perfect double life.

At least, that's what I told myself as I drove away from the house, from my wife, from the last moment of normalcy before everything went to hell.

The office was its usual controlled chaos—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, the low hum of productivity that I'd always found comforting.

I was a financial consultant for a mid-sized firm in Crescent Falls, nothing glamorous but stable, respectable.

The kind of job that looked good on paper, that made me seem like a responsible adult.

I'd built a reputation here as reliable, professional, someone who got results. My colleagues respected me. My boss trusted me. No one knew about the affair, about the crumbling marriage, about the man I became when I left the office.

"Henrik, got a minute?" My boss, Richard, stuck his head into my office around ten-thirty.

"Sure, what's up?"

He came in, closing the door behind him—never a good sign. "I wanted to check in with you. You've seemed... distracted lately. Everything okay?"

I forced a smile, the same one I'd perfected for Bryony. "Everything's fine. Just busy, you know how it is."

Richard studied me for a moment, and I wondered what he saw. Did he notice the shadows under my eyes from late nights with Amelia? The way my wedding ring felt like a shackle I wanted to remove? The guilt I carried like a stone in my chest?

"If you need to talk," he said finally, "my door's always open. Marriage can be tough. I've been there."

The irony wasn't lost on me. Here was my boss, offering support for a marriage I was actively destroying. "Thanks, Richard. I appreciate it. Really, though, everything's good."

He nodded, clearly not convinced but willing to let it go. "Alright. Just remember, work-life balance is important. Don't let the job consume you."

If only he knew it wasn't the job consuming me.

After he left, I sat back in my chair, staring at the family photo on my desk. It was from our wedding day—Bryony in her simple white dress, me in my suit, both of us smiling like we'd just won the lottery. She looked so young in that photo, so hopeful. I looked... happy. Genuinely happy.

When had that changed?

I couldn't pinpoint the exact moment. It had been gradual, a slow erosion of whatever we'd had. Or maybe it had never been real to begin with. Maybe I'd just been in love with the idea of her—the mysterious girl who needed saving, who looked at me like I was her hero.

The reality had been far less romantic.

My phone buzzed. Another text from Amelia.

Amelia: Thinking about you. About last night. About what you did to me against that wall...

Heat flooded through me, and I shifted in my chair. This was what I wanted—simple, physical, uncomplicated. Amelia never asked me about my feelings, never wanted to have deep conversations about our relationship. She just wanted me, wanted the sex, wanted the excitement of our secret affair.

It was intoxicating in its simplicity.

I typed back: Tonight will be even better. I promise.

Amelia: You better deliver, Mr. Mikelson. I have high expectations.

Me: Have I ever disappointed you?

Amelia: Never. That's why I keep coming back for more.

I smiled at my phone, feeling more alive than I had all morning. This was what I needed. Not the heavy silence of my marriage, not Bryony's wounded looks and tentative attempts at connection. Just this—desire, pleasure, escape.